Love Is For Strangers
by vivalablond
Summary: The world will not remember her, but it'll certainly remember this young boy made entirely of quick-burning flame. Why did her heart always love what she knew she couldn't have, what she would always lose? So she comes closer to the rising, dying Sun, because all she's ever been is an accumulation of almosts, and she wants to feel, wants to burn for once in her life...
1. Apollo

He used to dream of France as a beautiful Republic. Back when he treaded the safe, polished halls of his university and lived off of the books he read.

Now nightmares fill his days and nights, consume his mind. He knows he's doing a good job of hiding his inner torment because no one seems to notice or comment.

He walks the streets with new eyes, as if seeing everything for the first and last time. He's always known that he wouldn't live to grow old. If someone were ever to ask, he wasn't sure he'd be able to explain this odd feeling inside him...like the days that fate had allotted him were considerably shorter than everyone else's. Maybe that was why he refused to bother with the trivial. He was born with a burning passion, a flame that is tended to and kept burning each and every day. That fire, once empowering and beautiful and bright, is now threatening to burn him alive.

He is a living torch, an all-consuming flame, guiding the way, lighting the path for others, yet slowly dying. Slowly burning away...

* * *

Hope is something unfamiliar for her. She isn't quite sure exactly how it wormed it's way into her heart, figures it must've happened sometime when she started attending Marius's meetings and filling her head with the curly-haired leader's inspiring words.

But there was no doubt that it was there. A tiny sliver of hope. A hope that perhaps these silly boys could do something after all. Perhaps they could make some sort of small impact on the poor lives of those around them. She tried convincing herself it was all a waste of time, just a game for rich young boys to play, nothing to concern herself with.

But then their leader, the man who shone like a million stars ablaze - no, like the sun itself -, opened his mouth and converted her with promises and dreams and ideas of a future that seemed practically impossible, almost unattainable.

_How did this happen? How did you manage to light a fire within my soul, Monsieur? _

* * *

The Les Amis settle down for the night, their songs wafting into the cafe. Words sung with foreboding. Lyrics laced with tenderness and fear and love. Songs of friendship and farewells.

_Drink with me to days gone by. To the life that used to be._

The doors of the cafe are swung open and she stands in the entrance, one foot inside, the other on the cold cobblestone. She listens and watches, chilled by the strangely sad melody that the men now sing.

And then she hears another voice joining in. Quiet. Pained. Yet...beautiful. It comes from the alley, on the opposite side of the cafe wall. She peers around to see which unfortunate soul lends his voice to the choir of students and nobles. She spots his golden curls first and instantly recognizes him. Their strong and passionate leader, his back against the alley wall, eyes haunted in the darkness. She can't help but wonder why he isn't out on the barricade with the rest of his friends.

"_Will the world remember you when you fall?_" He sings softly into the night. "_Could it be your death means nothing at all..._" As his voice trails off, he winces and clutches his upper right arm.

She takes a step forward, knowing the look on his face all too well. The look of stifling pain. She's seen it many a time on the faces of the poor. He's hurt.

"Monsieur," she whispers as she approaches, careful not to startle him. He looks up at her beneath furrowed brows and squares his shoulders. She's not sure if he knows who she is, but she offers her help anyway. "Let me have a look at that arm."

He frowns at her, his eyes absolutely scrutinizing.

"It's just a minor scrape, that's all." He assures her.

"More than a scrape, Monsieur. I was there at General Lamarque's funeral this morning. I was there when one of the French guardsmen rode by on his horse and slashed at you with his sword." She recalls the memory, recalls how no one else had witnessed the attack. No one else watched as he made a make-shift bandage and tied it around his bleeding arm before anyone could notice. Obviously it hadn't healed as quickly as they both thought it would.

"You..." He struggles for words, for questions. _She was there? She had seen? Who was this girl?_

"Please. Let me see to that wound." She insists.

"It isn't so bad." He replies, but he can't sway her. She looks him dead in the eye.

"Can't have the leader of this revolution bleeding to death."

When he hesitates, she takes him by his good arm and gently leads him back to the cafe and he doesn't resist.

* * *

It's late. He's exhausted himself, unable to resist the young gamine's offer of help. He sits, slumped in a chair by the corner, near the fireplace. He's only vaguely aware of her telling him he'd have to take his red jacket off and roll up his right sleeve. He's even less aware of himself slowly following her instructions.

When he hears her sharp intake of breath, however, he becomes alert. He looks down to see what she sees and suppresses a shuddering gasp as he stares at the festering wound, a cut that goes deep into his skin and muscle, dried blood sticking to his skin.

"I'm no expert, but the best thing to do would be cleaning it up with a bit of alcohol." She says in hushed tones as she gets up to grab some of Grantaire's leftover liquor. He distracts himself from the injury by watching her move across the room, suddenly finding her familiar.

"You're not one of the barmaids, are you?" He mumbles as she sits beside him. She shakes her head, holding a rag in her hands.

"Roll your sleeve up some more."

"Aren't you-" His voice comes out funny and stiff. He clears his throat and tries again. "Aren't you Marius' shadow?"

He can tell she's offended by the sharp look in her eyes as she waits for him to get his shirt sleeve out of the way.

"Eponine." She curtly corrects him, soaking the cloth in alcohol. "And your name, Apollo?"

"Apollo?" He looks at her, a corner of his mouth turning up into a smile. "Curious nickname..."

"But very fitting, even you'd agree." She responds, tucking the black waves of her hair behind her ears as she concentrates on her task.

"I didn't think you'd-" He stops himself before he insults her again. But she knows what he was about to say.

"Didn't think a street urchin like me would know much about Greek mythology?" She looks up at him with a frown.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean..." He doesn't know what else to say, never having been good at conversing with the opposite gender. He studies her for a moment, the curve of her nose, the light sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks, her dark complexion, her deft hands working skillfully. "They call me-" She presses the cloth to his wound and he winces in pain. "...Enjolras." He manages to say with a clenched jaw.

"And why have you not asked Joly to fix you up, Enjolras?" She sounds more and more like his mother.

"Joly was busy taking care of others more seriously injured." He says as pain shoots up his entire arm.

"I'd like to know your definition of 'seriously injured'..." She mumbles, pulling the bloody rag away. "_Mon Dieu_...I didn't think the god of light could bleed so much."

* * *

They say no more as she finishes her task of cleaning his wound. Somewhere along the way, Enjolras dozes off. She can only guess at how tired he must feel, knows that these boys haven't had much sleep once their revolution suddenly began gaining momentum. She puts the rag away once his wound is cleaned up, finds a clean sheet and rips a piece from it, ready to make him a new bandage. Her gaze wanders to his sleeping face as her hands wrap the cloth around his arm. His golden curls fall onto his forehead, partially covering his eyelids. The yellow light in the cafe casts a glow on his strong, sharp features.

_A sleeping angel_, she can't help but think.

She tightens the bandage and begins to roll his sleeve down, her fingers gliding down his smooth skin, across the newly formed muscles on his arm.

_Poor bourgeois boys. So unused to manual labor. What a change this life must bring to you._

She studies his hands and fingers, still soft and white. Looks at her own, dirty and calloused and rough.

"There. All done." She whispers to him, knowing he doesn't hear her.

She places a hand on his cheek and leans in slightly.

"The worst is over, Apollo." She hopes her words ring with truth.

He stirs at her touch, mumbles a quiet "thank you" with closed eyelids and she walks away feeling like a liar.


	2. Hermes

There's no attack that night or the next. Unused to waiting, Apollo becomes restless. Their plans had failed, to some extent. The people of France did not join their cause like the Les Amis had hoped. They are on their own now. So they wait...

"Enjolras, will you stop your pacing? You're making everyone dizzy." Joly complains.

The men are scattered about the barricade, tired and hungry, their passion and zeal fading fast.

"Forgive me, I just..." The leader runs a hand through his curly locks as tries to stop his feet from moving. "What's taking them so long? I figured they would've come back to fight by now." His eyes scan over the men on the barricade as no one gives him a reply, most of them dozing off, the rest distracting themselves with bottles of liquor. He lets out a frustrated sigh and straightens up. He needs to project confidence and certainty for his friends. He can't afford to lose his cool in front of the others.

"Go inside and grab yourself a drink, 'Jolras." Grantaire swings a hand around the leader's neck & points to the cafe with a bottle of gin.

Enjolras extricates himself from the drunk man's hold and heads over to the open doors of the cafe. He doesn't plan on drinking, just realizes that he shouldn't be around the Les Amis when he's in one of his less-inspiring moods. Keeping up appearances means having to disappear every once in a while.

When he enters, he spots Pontmercy and his shadow- _Eponine_, he'll never forget the look on her face when she told him her actual name- over by a table in the corner. Pontmercy hands her a folded letter and pats her on the shoulder, almost like she's a pet or something, before turning to leave.

He passes by Enjolras with a wide grin and a nod as he exits out the doors. Enjolras' gaze falls back on the dark-haired girl, who opens the letter and begins poring over it. The immediate dejection on her face stirs something inside of him and he makes his way over.

"How long will you continue to deliver letters for him?" He asks quietly as he takes a seat beside her, not at all ignorant to Pontmercy's recent antics. Eponine continues to read as though she hasn't heard him. "What does this one say, Hermes?"

Still, she does not respond. He can't help drumming his fingers on the table as he tries to keep himself from thinking about the national guard. He is unused to having this much free time on his hands. This waiting around is akin to torture. His eyes wander over to her distraught face, taking in her chocolate-colored eyes, her small, freckled nose. It's almost impossible to see the freckles with her tan complexion. The longer he looks at her, the more he notices faint traces of beauty behind all the dirt and grime, in the way she focuses all her attention on something, the way her hair constantly falls into her face no matter how many times she tucks it away behind her ears, the way she bites her lip when she's nervous.

"Can people really fall in love so fast?" She suddenly asks, lifting her glistening eyes to his. He looks away, hoping she hasn't noticed him staring at her, wondering why she's asking such an odd question.

"Love is for strangers." He says coldly, getting up to stand by the fireplace.

"How do you mean?" She asks with furrowed brows, watching him trace the cracks in the old, brick mantle.

"From what I know, Pontmercy just met this girl. Does he know anything about her, besides the fact that she has a pretty face?"

"Not really." Her gaze drifts to the window, her expression unreadable to him, her voice distant.

"Right. They're in love because they have not gotten to know each other. They do not know each other's interests and dreams. Don't know each other's faults."

Eponine looks back at the letter, biting her lip. He could almost see her debating with herself.

"So what happens when two people _do_ get to know each other?" She asks tentatively, looking up once more, eyes searching his for answers. The desperation in her voice pains him. He shrugs and turns his back to her.

"That love turns into friendship."

"You sound so sure for someone who's never been in love."

This remark makes him turn around sharply, but she's no longer looking at him. And he can't really argue with her, just wonders how she's able to tell.

"There's something tragic about people in love." She explains, her voice growing quieter.

"Tragic..." He repeats as he listens to her small, sad voice.

"Their tragedy lies in their hope." She sighs heavily. "Yes, hope. That cruel, cruel mistress."

Enjolras listens and knows she is describing herself.

"Hope blinds them, makes them believe in things that can never be. Beautiful, impossible dreams. Hope makes them do things they would never do otherwise, if they were not under the spell of love."

He listens as she explains, studies her tone of voice, the strength and conviction behind it and recognizes that she, too, has been gifted with eloquence. A dangerous gift of speech that comes with much power. He would know.

"Then I have been in love." He finds himself saying.

She looks at him with empty eyes.

"I'm in love with freedom, with Patria. And you-" He hesitates. "You with Marius."

Her breath catches and she stares down shamefully.

"'Can people really fall in love so fast'? You didn't mean Pontmercy and the object of his infatuation..."

_You were really speaking of yourself._

He's walking over to a desk, opens up a drawer, retrieves something and brings it back to the table.

He hands her an envelope.

"God-speed, Hermes."


	3. Time

He expects Eponine to leave once she takes the envelope from his hand, but instead, she sits quietly and contemplates. He wonders what is on her mind as he circles around her nervously, trying to keep his eyes away from the window.

_ Better to pace in here than out there in front of the Les Amis._

"I'm sorry the people have not joined your cause." She finally says.

Enjolras can't help but feel like he's been punched in the gut. He came here to distract himself, not be reminded of a plan that had obviously, yet unexpectedly failed.

"You..." He squeezes the bridge of his nose as he tries to gather his thoughts, panic rising up inside of him. "You are one of the people. You must know why. Tell me why they didn't come."

When she looks about to answer, she stops and shakes her head. He can tell she's holding back on him.

"Please. I'd like to know." He begs. And when she continues to hesitate, he adds, "Do not think me so weak-minded as Pontmercy. I am made of stronger stuff. I can handle the truth."

"Forgive me, my dear Apollo. I forget that you are immortal." She teases, hoping to break through the tension she senses inside him.

"Tell me, what is my hubris? Why do the people of France lay asleep in their beds?" He asks in all seriousness.

"Your cause is definitely worth fighting for." She starts off. "But your approach was lacking in relatability. You failed to connect with the people."

"How did I manage to do that?" He asks in earnest, taking a seat in front of her to stop himself from pacing. She bites her lip and continues.

"These men and women don't sit around dreaming of the grand ideals you and your friends shout about. They're out there surviving, looking for their next meal, trying to find shelter for the night. In order to have gained their support properly, you should have spoken their language."

He listens with utmost patience as she begins to tear his actions apart, criticize his words, point out his faults.

"Hunger has robbed them of imagination. You should have painted a better picture of what their daily lives would look like if your goals of overthrowing the monarchy were accomplished. Remember that many of them are illiterate, impoverished. Your fancy talk, Latin words, and historical allusions slip over their heads. They are a selfish people. Poverty will do that to you. You have asked them to fight, to die for complete strangers. Why should they fight for a world that was always cruel to them, a world that has always hated them?"

The pain and passion in her voice tells him she speaks from personal experience. And though her words of truth slice through to his core, he is inexplicably drawn to this young gamine who was proving herself to be far more intelligent than he'd originally thought.

"Because two are better than one. A large group accomplishes more than a handful of young university students." He retaliates.

"I know that. You know that. But you had to make them feel for their brother, care for their neighbor." She replies calmly. "You should have preached love first, Monsieur." So much confidence behind her convictions, so much assurance. "You should have reminded them of their humanity. Many have been reduced to animalistic instincts, killing each other over petty things, lying to one another, stealing...They have become unaccustomed and unfamiliar to the most fundamental moral values."

He does not know how to respond properly, finds himself tongue-tied. Her words and ideas race through his brain as he contemplates postponing the battle with the national guard. Maybe they could buy themselves some extra time, perhaps he could go out in the streets, make a few more speeches. This time he would cater to the needs of the people, he could really rally them up if only...

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on his locks in frustration.

_There was no more time._

"Where were you a few weeks ago?" He asks as he gets up from his chair and begins his pacing once again.

"I was always here, Monsieur." Is her modest reply.

* * *

He forgets he's talking to a street urchin. She does not speak like a commoner and this intrigues him.

"Did you grow up on the streets, Eponine?" He asks gently, hoping not to offend, though often doing so without intention.

"No."

He waits for an explanation, but she does not grant him one, remaining ever so much an enigma.

"You're unlike any mademoiselle I've ever met." He admits with all sincerity.

* * *

She watches as he marches back and forth, mumbling to himself, Latin words she does not understand. He brings his hand up to rub his forehead when she spots a faint scar on his wrist.

"How'd you get that?" She asks aloud, hoping it does not sound like a silly question.

He stops mid-step and follows her gaze, examining his wrist, a slight smile suddenly appearing on his face.

"This? A few years back, Bahorel and Courferac had dragged me into a bar..." He brings her back with him to his university days, to a night when he'd first met Grantaire. "This man, you could tell he was completely inebriated, comes up to us and starts throwing punches. I managed to get myself out of the mess, but then I saw him reach for an empty bottle of liquor and raise it over his head like he was going to smash it over Courf's head..." He pauses, his eyes glazing over as he recalls the event. "And at the most inopportune time, I decided to get in-between them, just as the man's bottle crashed down and broke over my arm, shards of glass breaking my wrist open." He laughs as she winces. "It didn't hurt so bad, honestly. But then the young man seemed to awaken from his stupor, introduced himself to us as Grantaire, and ended up taking me to a young medical student he knew that helped stitch me up. That's how we were introduced to Joly."

She smiles as he finishes talking and he asks her why she's looking at him in that sort of way.

"You're much more approachable when you're telling stories. I can see now why they follow you."

He laughs again, hoping she doesn't notice him blushing.

"The great Apollo should smile more often. It becomes you."

Compliments don't sit well with him and he tries to change the subject.

"Trade stories with me then. Tell me of how you grew up." He begs.

It's her turn to smile as she gets up from her chair with the envelope.

"Perhaps another night." She says, turning to leave before he stops her with a hand on her arm.

"I may not have another night."

* * *

So they sit by the fireplace and Eponine humors him with silly childhood stories, back when her parents were still considerably wealthy. She tells him what it was like to grow up in an inn, how her favorite room was the library, which books she could still quote from memory. Then her tales grow more gruesome and somber. He offers her no pity, just a listening ear. And she can't help but remark that, though Marius was the first kind face she'd encountered, this man was the first one who was willingly spending time with her. She could tell him of her past and knew he was not afraid nor repulsed by it.

And as the rest of the men sleep, he attends to that gentle voice that draws him in to a world he is unfamiliar with, a place so different from the one he has grown up in that he wonders if this is the same Patria he has always known.

The night darkens, yet his vision grows more acute to the beauty in her that was once hidden, barely seen. He begins to think that maybe he was wrong. That maybe love didn't die away as people delved into one another and got to know each other better. Maybe it wasn't love that begot friendship, like he'd thought.

_Instead it is friendship that blossoms into love. It is friendship that fuels love._


	4. Touch

Paris sleeps and dreams and Eponine's voice is like music filling the empty night sky. He can't stop himself from pouring his entire soul out to her.

"I only wish the members of the upper class were as passionate about this as my friends and I are..." He continues to preach to her, pacing behind her chair.

"Passion is such a rare commodity." She mutters sagely as she listens to the steady rhythm of his steps.

"Yes, and something even the rich cannot afford." He stops and rests his hands on the back of her chair, careful to keep a stoic expression. The cold betrayal and rejection of his family members is still a fresh wound that he's not sure will ever heal.

She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, tilting her chin up to look at him.

"Yet you seem to have it in the bucket loads, bourgeois boy. Tell me, how is that possible?"

_Were her eyes tricking her or was that a faint blush on the statue's cheeks?_

"What about you, mademoiselle?" He redirects the focus from himself. "I know I'm about to stick my foot in my mouth again, but let me just say that I never expected someone from your class to be so..."

She waits for his delicate choice of words, leaning forward and placing her forearms on the table.

"So full of emotion." He finishes.

"What, are the poor incapable of feeling?" She smirks.

"No, what I meant to say was..." He sighs out of frustration as words fail him for the first time. "You feel things on a deeper level than anyone I've ever met." He clarifies for her and himself.

"I don't think that's necessarily a good thing." She answers honestly, some sadness tainting her voice.

He knows she's thinking of Marius then as he watches her turn the envelope in her hands.

"You deserve better, Eponine." His voice is suddenly so low she has to strain to hear it. But the words don't miss her ears.

"I appreciate the kind sentiments, Apollo, but mere mortals like myself don't deserve much of anything." Her voice drops as well, slightly wavering.

He feels something strong take over him and he's not sure what it is exactly. Compassion? Concern? Enjolras isn't used to caring so much for someone. Sure, he's always cared for the people of France as a whole, for all the poor and downtrodden, but never on such an individual level. As the feeling continues to burn him up from the inside, he extends a hand and gingerly places it on her shoulder. He's never been good at comforting people, but instinct tells him that touch has its own way of soothing someone. He doesn't miss the way she flinches at the sudden contact. He knows she's been touched by plenty of men before and doesn't blame her for the immediate response, but it still hurts to see her react that way.

"You should know," He braces himself for what he's about to say. This cheering up business is new and unfamiliar to him. "Your value does not depend on what you have or what you lack. You are valuable simply because you exist, Eponine." He's never been so frank with a girl before, but he believes every word coming out of his mouth and hopes she does to.

He can't help but notice the way she visibly relaxes then, hears her let out a quiet sigh. It isn't until this moment that he realizes how much she's been starved of kind words and actual care. And this thought leaves him with more anger than pity. She swipes a few silent tears away with the back of her hand.

"You would have won over all of Paris with that line." She says, trying to muster up strength in her voice. It's hard to do when the warmth from Apollo's touch burns her shoulder like fire.

* * *

Her comment sends his mind reeling once again with regret and thoughts of what he could have done differently to convince the people to join his cause. She can tell he's completely distracted because he doesn't realize he's started to rub his thumb over her shoulder.

There's a tiny sliver of hope in him that maybe, if they bought themselves some extra time, they could try again and rally more people. But he knows that's no longer possible. Now they have to wait out the consequences.

"It's too late, isn't it?" He asks her absentmindedly. "Too late to do anything."

He's drawn out of his despair with the feel of her hand, gliding over his own on her shoulder. He was right, touch does soothe. But it also electrifies.

"Dawn will soon be approaching. You should rest." She says softly. He's too distracted by the feel of her palm to respond. His silence causes her to turn around and look at him. "Enjolras?" It's the second time he's ever heard her say his name and he loves the way it sounds coming from her lips.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to sleep much tonight." Apollo admits.


	5. Night and Flame

"I fear I must leave you now. Marius will be expecting a reply to his letter." She lets go of his hand, much to his chagrin, and gets up from her chair as he pulls it out for her. She starts to smile because the disappointment on his face is too obvious. "I've spent a pleasant evening with a god." She says, hoping that'll leave him content.

"And I, with an angel." He counters, trying his hand at smooth-talking, though he's not nearly as good at it as Courfeyrac. Her mirth spills over into a gravelly laugh.

"I'm no angel, monsieur. I don't belong in the light. I'm a creature of the dark." She says with sheer balladry. He wonders how she can so effortlessly make language sound so beautiful.

"Fine, I take it back. You are the moon." He says, more seriously and honestly, more like himself. And this time she does not laugh.

"But do not you know, Apollo?" Her voice is a hush, a sudden conspiratorial whisper. "The moon owes it's existence, it's light, it's _life_, to the sun. It is only a mere reflection, a construct." She counters. He shakes his head and wonders if despondency is something she's acquired over the years or something she was born with, ingrained in her.

"You are the moon, Eponine." He assures her. The way he says "moon", it comes out sweet and thick, like honey. He stops and turns away. How does he go about saying what is on his heart? Where will he find the courage to continue? "Forgive me. If you want poetry, go to Jehan, he'll oblige you."

But he's already, albeit unknowingly, entranced her and she urges him on.

"Give it a try, Apollo." She laughs again. Somewhere throughout the night, she realizes she can't bring herself to say his real name. It's too precious. She is hanging on a precipice and to say his name would mean to dash herself among the rocks at the bottom. So she calls him Apollo...

* * *

When he hesitates, she tries again to convince him to continue.

"Pretend I am the night sky." She reaches her hands far above her head in a long stretch. "Speak to me like you would to the dark heavens." She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and he catches the dusky curve of her lashes. "I am the cloak of midnight, the stars, the moon, as you've claimed. Your words are mine to hear. Release them, let them be swallowed up by the night." She is living, breathing, walking _poetry_. Sleep laces her tongue with beauty and wisdom. How can anything he says ever compare?

Just then, the feeling comes. So unfamiliar, yet he knows it's love that finally hits him. But why now? Why must he begin to fall in love tonight, while his whole world is waiting to collapse, waiting to crumble? Why now?

It's strange, this feeling he has that he'll miss her when he's gone. But how can you miss someone you hardly know?

* * *

"You are celestial silver light."

_What a nonsensical start. What is he saying?_

Yet he pushes on, finding courage as he meets her sleepy gaze.

"The moon reflects because it first absorbs."

_Not exactly poetry, but perhaps he can dress up scientific fact, hoping to God that it'll make sense._

"It consumes light from the sun, but then converts that light into it's own source of strength and power. Though it knows it was initially made for the dark, for night, it continues to thrive and dazzle, emitting a constant and brilliant vitality." He pauses to take another silent breath. "That is what you do. You are the moon." He says for a third time.

She lets his words sink in, settle down somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach, forming a firm foundation. He's not really capable of gentleness, his words always coming out too strong and passionate, but she understands how much he means them and that warms her heart.

"Dazzling." She likes the way the word dances on her tongue, laughter bubbling out of her. "Then I must hurry to my side of the horizon for dawn is approaching and you'll soon have to rise."

_But the moon will always be overshadowed by the sun,_ she thinks as he walks her to the door_. No matter how bright and beautiful it may appear to be in the night, it is nothing in comparison to the great sun that gives light and life to all things._

* * *

An empty smile plastered on his lips, he feels like a walking vapor, like a ghost. Everything about him, invisible. Eponine stands by the door. She is here, she is real, she is the one that's truly alive. Only those who've stood strong against adversity, who've lived through pain and struggle, who've _endured_...only they understand what it means to be living, only they become substantial. For people like him, those who've been blessed from birth with no obligations and no misfortunes, life passed by them like a dream. He supposes that perhaps this is secretly what's been the driving force behind his passion and rebellion. A need to feel alive, to become real, to leave a mark, something that'll last when he's gone. A need to affect life around him, to create something apart from himself, that'll continue on when he's passed away.

* * *

Daylight haunts the horizon and a gentle rain begins, watering the silent world. Her hand hovers above the doorknob.

"Eponine." He breathes her name like a prayer. It hangs naked in the air between them before he even realizes he's said it. She turns around and life stops still, saves them this tiny moment in time. The intense promise of death sweetens the air around them, filling their lungs with urgency, rapturing their hearts. They stare at each other, unconsciously sensing that they will both be dead by the next full moon, she of poverty and starvation and he of gunfire and revolution.

The world will not remember her, but it'll certainly remember this young boy made entirely of quick-burning flame. Why did her heart always love what she knew she couldn't have, what she would always lose? So she takes a brave step into the fire, comes closer to the rising, dying Sun, because all she's ever been is an accumulation of _almosts_, and she wants to feel, wants to burn for once in her life.

But she's never been as brave as him and simply leans in to give him a delicate kiss on his cheek. At the same moment, entirely on impulse, he decides to wrap her in an embrace, his hand finding itself at the small of her back. And all at once, he can feel her melting, can feel her supple, yielding figure folding itself into his arms. The Moon dissolves into the mighty Sun, envelopes itself in it's warm, welcoming light, for come the next day, she will be the first to die.

And that very next day, after the noise and smoke has settled and the French Guard has retreated, Enjolras and Eponine find themselves in a similar embrace. Only this time, death is the cause of her suppleness. And the kiss of rain replaces those soft lips that touched his cheek just the day before.

Her death sears his heart, scalds his soul, provides the final fuel to the flame, and he finally feels alive, feels like he can soar. He expands, bigger and brighter, larger than life, swallowing the entire sky as he collapses in on himself.

He goes out burning, the world scorched in his wake.


End file.
